


Small Infinities

by plainclothesdisaster



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Unlimited Tacos (Blaseball Team)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26963941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plainclothesdisaster/pseuds/plainclothesdisaster
Summary: With six teammates lost and the fan favorites gone, the remaining Tacos must decide how to move forward.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Mcdowell Mason wasn’t a leader. He didn’t have Beyonce’s affable charm, didn’t have Pothos’s no-nonsense edge, didn’t have Quitter’s plucky snark. He’d been happy to stay out of the spotlight and let the others shine. He’d been happy to show up and support them, to do his job quietly and as well as he could manage. He’d been glad to improve his meager skills with them, slowly but surely. 

He’d never expected to end up here. Mcdowell sat with the team, or what was left of it, in the locker room after Season 9. It had been quiet all season. Five, and then six (poor Quitter), giant peanut shells hadn’t made for great conversation partners between games. But at least they had been there. At least their teammates had still been close. Now they were gone, and the locker room just felt cavernously empty. 

Someone had already scrubbed the names from their lockers. 

None of them had really talked about what happened after the championship game. No one knew what to say. The small joy of seeing their teammates free from their shells had so quickly turned to horror as they realized what they’d become. Their friends were different, subjugated, warped into something strange and cold and powerful to the point that they were barely recognizable.

It had been hard to watch the PODS destroy the champion Shoe Thieves in their moment of triumph. It had been hard to watch their former teammates’ corrupted spirit be siphoned, and harder still to watch the pity leave their eyes. That was when it truly hit him. Those players weren’t them anymore. Their friends were gone. 

During the game McDowell wanted to shout. _Stop! Please! Let them go!_ But he didn’t stir. Up till then he’d let the others on the team do the yelling. He’d let the others call the shots. He’d let the others stand up to protect them all, to spite the gods in face of their fears. He didn’t think of himself as a coward, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t done enough. 

His thoughts spiraled back to a day early on, right after they’d all first been recruited, before all of this heartache, when Al Pastor had burst onto the practice field, frenetic as always.

“The League says we oughta have a captain, so uh,” he scanned across the team with his finger, landing haphazardly on Mcdowell. “You’re the biggest, you’re the captain now. Congratulations.” 

The moment passed as quickly as it happened, and Mcdowell’s captainship became a bit of uneventful team history rather than a true responsibility. But he didn’t mind. In fact he’d been relieved. He didn’t want the title. He didn’t act on it, so his teammates never put much stock in it. But he couldn’t help but wonder, if he had, would things have been different? Would he have been able to do something instead of sit quietly as his friends got stolen? Would he not have had to suffer this unbearable weight in his chest?

He looked up at his fellow teammates - what was left of them - and he couldn’t stay quiet any more. 

“I know we are hurting right now.” He stood up, unsteady. “We have had many bad days as a team but this one feels different.

“I know I’ve not been the loudest on the team. Or the strongest. Or the best. But I’ve been here with you from the beginning.” His words started softly, but as he spoke more the tremble left his voice and conviction rang through. 

“I know that not all of you have,” his eyes fell on Vito and Hex, then over to Val and Fig, “But that hardly matters. We are all a part of this team and we have all lost something today.

“That nut has taken our friends. Of all the teams in the League, we might not be the ones with the best shot of taking it down. But we have to try. I am tired of losing. I am ready to fight.”

Around the room the team’s despondent faces regained some vigor. Mcdowell forced a smile. Nerves bubbled in his stomach but he didn’t mind. He could do this. They could do this. 

Dovenpart lifted his head from his hands and stood up. His eyes were still vacant. Of all of them he’d taken this whole thing the worst. Mcdowell hoped he felt some spark of will because of that.

But Dove didn’t smile back. “Sorry,” he said softly, painfully. “I can’t.”

Dove walked to the door and didn’t look back. Wordlessly, he stepped out into the shadows beyond. Mcdowell’s heart dropped. He didn’t blame Dove. He had been close with those who were now PODS, and McDowell suspected he had never really forgiven himself for his involvement in the Grand Unslam. Still, he couldn’t deny it hurt to see another original Taco gone.

And then they were 8. 

Mcdowell watched as the small bit of fire that had been building in his teammates’ eyes went out. Who were they kidding? Even the League champions couldn’t save their friends. They had been utterly destroyed by the PODS. How could the Tacos, the perennial worst team in Blaseball, stand a chance at fighting back?

_Have Hope._

A whisper of an echo. He felt it more than heard it. The voice of a teammate lost. Mcdowell set his jaw. They couldn’t give up.

“Look. I know we’re bad. We’ve been bad for so long. But I still believe our Tuesday will come. All the other teams out there? All of our old teammates? They’re rooting for us. They believe in us. I believe in us. Have hope.” 

Around the room it seemed like the echo had reached his teammates too. A buzz of energy began to build, something that felt unlike previous seasons. They’d all worked so hard to get to where they were, and maybe now, for the first time, they’d have something to show for it. 

It was time to show their friends, all of their friends, that they wouldn’t go quietly without a fight.

Mcdowell turned to open his locker. He rummaged around a bit before he found what he was looking for. As he turned back around, he pinned a spotless captain’s badge just under the collar of his uniform.

“Captain?” Vito questioned, eyeing the badge over his sunglasses. “I didn’t know you were Team Captain.”

Mcdowell steadied himself. “I didn’t want to be. But now it’s time to get to work.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sexton Wheerer stepped off the mound. His teammates ran out to him as he walked toward the dugout, their smiles wide. They slapped him on the back as he came by. In the background, the crowd roared. The Tacos had won. _Again._

How very, very odd.

Sexton stepped past the celebrations and down into the dugout, away from all the noise and the lights, and he leaned back against the railing. Adrenaline still hummed in his veins. He realized he should be happier. Instead, he was just tired.

Not physically tired (none of them could ever be physically tired), but certainly mentally exhausted. And how could he not be? He’d already blown past the records for most games pitched, for most balls thrown. He broke the record for most games lost too, but he had already been near the top of that chart before this. Now he stood far apart from the rest. An anomaly among infinite anomalies.

Sexton had already been on his own for the entire previous season. With the rest of the rotation shelled, he had no one else to help carry the load. But last season, without realizing it, he had still been leaning on his fellow pitchers even though they couldn’t play. Every time he got up on the mound each new game, he carried a small thought with him, _This could be the one. This time one of them could be set free._

During those games he’d turn an eye to the sky and watch the crows circle overhead. Disgusting creatures. He'd been wary of them ever since they'd started hanging around the fields a few seasons back. When they'd pecked him free two seasons ago, he'd snapped at the first one he saw and bit off its wing in fury, or possibly (though he wouldn’t admit it), fear. He didn’t like owing the birds a debt. And he certainly didn’t like depending on them to see his friends again. Still, as much as it pained him, before each pitch he’d whisper a quiet plea: _Please peck them out. Please set them free._

As Season 9 wore on he never gave up hope. But game after game he got up to pitch, and game after game he returned to the locker room as the Tacos’ only pitcher. _Next time. Next time._ Then the season ended. Another losing record. And another friend shelled.

And then, very suddenly, he was all alone.

Technically he’d been alone all Season 9, but this was different. When he put on his glove and stepped up to the mound on Day 1 of Season 10, he did it without the small comfort he carried with him before. No more chances for his friends to come back and help him now. This time they were really gone, far beyond the reach of some dumb birds. Now it was just him, staring down the barrel of 99 days alone. 99 games without relief. 99 games to add to his record-smashing loss count. 

But then the strangest thing started happening. The Tacos _won_.

Sexton knew better than to get his hopes up too soon. The team often started out the early season performing rather decently, but with perpetual inevitability the losses would build until they settled in at the bottom of the pack. But this season was different. The foregone plunge never came. The Tacos rose to the top of the division and _stayed there._

As he leaned against the railing in the dugout, fresh off their latest win, he still couldn’t quite believe it. This was a new feeling. He actually cared about how well they were doing. And even worse, he wanted to keep it up. He felt the terrible desire to _win_.

People never expected anything of the Tacos before. The team had been content to lose. Now everyone was watching them. Now they were counting on them. How did the good teams handle this pressure? How did the good players deal with this responsibility?

Still, it was thrilling to be doing well. The excitement was electric. Out on the field he watched Hex run circles in celebration. Vito layed on the horn of his Cadillac, which he still inexplicably found a way to get on the field during games. Basilio danced, pointing up at the board with their winning record on display.

But man, he wished _all_ of his friends were there with them. He thought of Patel, who carried them for so long when they were so bad. Quitter who had heart even when they were the worst. Dovenpart who always tried so hard even as reality broke around them. Even ~~Wyatt~~ NaN…

These wins should have belonged to them too. 

Sexton felt guilty for doing so well because they were gone. No, that was wrong. He felt guilty for doing so well despite them being gone. 

Why him? Why had he been freed instead of the others? If it had been Pothos, or Patel, or even Pitching Machine in his place, the team could have truly been great. 

A crow landed on the railing beside him. It looked at him sideways. He glared back.

Together the five Tacos pitchers had been so brave, or maybe they’d actually just been reckless. They thought they’d known what they were signing up for. They’d stood up and faced malevolent forces beyond their control, they’d swallowed their fear and metaphorically spit in the eye of the gods who tormented them. They had expected the danger. But Sexton had never expected to be the only one left behind. 

He looked at the crow and thought about biting its head off, but he just didn’t have the energy to do it. 

“At least you’re still here,” he said to it, quietly. “Even if you’re a little too late.”

Two more birds came and perched on the railing. They stared at him with shiny black eyes. 

“They’re all counting on me now. Just me. But to tell you the truth, I could use a little help.”

 _Caw_ , said the bird in reply, which did nothing but make him feel more foolish than he already did. 

Another game began soon after, as they always did, and again Sexton walked to the mound alone. 

The cheers from the crowd roused the fire in his heart. The birds flocked in the outfield en masse. Gods, he wanted to win. How unbearable. How delightful. He pulled his hat down, shadowing his eyes from the glare of the floodlights. He could do this. He could do this for them.

The Tacos played a tight match against the Sunbeams who, like most teams, were usually better than them. They had managed to eke out a one run lead at the top of the 8th. Now, at bottom of the 9th, Sexton just had to hold the Beams off. Two outs down. His heart pounded as he walked Nerd Pachecho. It pounded louder as Nagomi Nava got on base. 

Hendricks Richardson stepped up to the plate. As Sexton wound up to throw a pitch, a bird - he could have sworn it was the same one from before - landed on the brim of his hat. He stopped mid-throw. The bird tipped over and looked him in the eyes. Sexton blinked, confusion dulling his displeasure. 

He stared back at the bird, defiant. “Would you please just do something useful for once.”

 _CAW_. It barked in his face. Then it took off. 

And so did the massive flock in the outfield. 

A swarm of black wings whooshed over and around Sexton as a whole murder of crows flew with hellbent purpose toward poor Hendricks. The batter’s eyes grew wide. An instant later he abandoned his bat and fled from the plate, dodging sharp beaks all the way back to the Beams’ sideline. _Out._

 _Huh._ Sexton cracked a smile. _So that’s what they do._

_Tacos Win._

His teammates rushed to surround him again, eyes bright and full of zeal, shouting with delight. This time, he stayed on the field with them. 

The bird found its way back to him among the celebrations and landed directly atop his head, as if it belonged there.

“Go BIRDS!” shouted Rat. The team laughed among cheers. “Birds for MVP!” 

“I still did most of the work,” Sexton grumbled, but the smile didn’t leave his face. He looked up at the bird sternly. “Don’t think this makes us even.”

The bird cackled in response and Sexton couldn't help but laugh. He was more sure of it now than he was before. They were going to get their friends back. But who’s to say they couldn’t make a few new ones along the way?


	3. Chapter 3

A dour mood hung over the locker room. Rat fiddled idly with the bat rack. Basilio Mason sulked on the bench in the corner. Sexton stared vacantly into the mid distance, his mind clearly elsewhere. Four Shames. Four terrible, avoidable losses in extra innings, in games they should have won, all back to back. The Tacos’ early jubilation at a winning record had been washed away by a new kind of disappointment. 

“These past few rounds have been rough,” Mcdowell addressed them solemnly from the head of the room, “But that doesn’t mean we have to give up hope.”

“Well at least I’ve been crushing it.” Vito snarked, arms folded. If he had eyes he’d be rolling them. “Would be great if you guys could bother to make an effort.”

“Hey don’t look at me,” Basilo Mason snapped back. “Me and Fig have been holding our own too.”

“Guys, please,” Mcdowell lamented. 

Vito ignored him. He turned toward Basilio, his voice rising, “You kidding? When’s the last time you saw third base? A week ago?”

“Please, let’s not fight.” Mcdowell tried again, his soft voice instantly lost among the yelling.

Basilio shot back, “The real problem is Sexton keeps handing out dingers like they’re coupons for the build-your-own-taco bar!” 

On the bench next to Sexton Hex growled, hackles raised. Sexton didn’t move, his eyes still vacant. Rat shrunk behind the lockers. Basilio stood up forcefully. Vito stepped forward. Mcdowell looked pained.

“You guys don’t know how to lose.” 

Valentine Games’s voice cut through the room. Silence fell. All eyes turned to her.

She pushed herself off of the wall she’d been leaning on. She’d been trying not to get too involved with this team. After being on four different ones, she’d learned not to get too attached. But - damn it all - she couldn’t just sit back and watch them self destruct like this.

“Uh, what are you talking about?” Rat poked out from his hiding place. “Have you seen our record? We’re great at losing.”

Basilio frowned. “Yeah you weren’t here for the worst of it Val, but if there’s anything we really know how to do, it’s lose.” 

Valentine shook her head. “It isn’t about losing a lot. That’s easy. When you’re expecting to lose, you don't have to care.” She scanned the room, taking her time to make a point.

“You guys don’t know how to lose _when the losses actually matter_.”

Basilio’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead he pressed his lips together and sat back down. The anger left Vito’s posture. Mcdowell let out a small sigh. 

“I get it,” Val continued, “It hurts to go to extra innings only to crack at the last second. It hurts to lose when you expect to win. You guys used to have the luxury of laughing off your losses because you never had a serious shot at winning.”

“We’re not a very serious team,” Rat mused with a chuckle. 

“You are now,” Val shot back. 

Rat clammed up. He couldn’t deny it. And neither could anyone else. Over a season Val had watched this team transform from a bunch of goofballs who only vaguely cared about being decent at blaseball into a squad of actually good players who had a real shot at making the playoffs. The Tacos were a different team. It made her heart swell, against her better judgement. It made her want to do well for them too. 

Val had played in championship games. She knew what the pressure felt like. She knew what it felt like to have people counting on her. This team didn’t, not yet. But they were certainly getting the world’s worst crash course, and she’d do what she could to help them.

Val went on, “We all have worked very hard and sacrificed a lot to get here. And we _are_ a good team,” she flashed them a small smile. “We have to remember a handful of chokes doesn't change that.”

Vito nodded. Basilio smiled. The air in the room loosened further, settling them back into some level of normalcy. Satisfied, Val moved back toward her spot on the wall to wait for the next game. 

Then Sexton, as if coming out of a trance, finally spoke.

“I just wish they were here.”

Ah. And there it was. Val could have sworn she felt the temperature drop. How could she forget the perpetual cloud that hung over the team? The dark filter through which all of the wins and all of the losses were tempered? Val watched as the team’s faces fell, and her heart sank. 

She hadn’t known the all the others, the ones who were stolen, before they were shelled. She hadn’t been on the team yet. But she’d heard their stories and it was obvious why they were so beloved. They were full of spirit, if not talent. And they had even Val questioning herself which really mattered more.

Either way, the void they’d left behind was massive. 

No wonder the Tacos were choking. The team who nobody ever counted on suddenly had everything to prove. The team who never, in _nine seasons_ , had to take anything seriously, now had to step up and fight.

They had to keep winning. If they won at least this would all have been for something. If they won they wouldn’t have to keep thinking about what they lost. 

Val adamantly kept her smile. Someone had to. “I wish they were here too,” she said softly, meeting Sexton’s eyes with firm determination. “But right now it’s time to show them what we can do.”

For a moment it seemed like her words didn’t reach him. But then, a small spark of fire rekindled behind his vacant look. A bit of resolve returned to his posture. The season wasn’t over, and neither were their chances at a winning record. Not by a long shot.

Val smiled again, genuine this time. “We’ll make winners out of you yet.”


	4. Chapter 4

Wyatt Dovenpart told himself he wasn’t going to watch their games. He’d never really bothered paying attention to them before, even when he’d been playing in them. The results had never mattered much anyway. 

He figured it was better to just look away. He couldn’t stand to watch his team suffer. Wasn’t that the whole reason he’d walked away from playing this season? He could deal with the regular splorts-based kind of losing. He'd dealt with that just fine for nine seasons straight. But the other kind of losing- losing beloved friends- that he couldn’t bear. 

So he made a promise to himself. This season, he’d just be done with it, he'd let whatever happened happen, without him. He was officially getting off the emotional roller coaster ride, thank you very much.

Oh, who was he kidding. To hell with lofty detachment. He’d had his eyes glued to every game since the moment the first pitch had been thrown.

Even if he wasn’t playing (or maybe because of it), Dovenpart couldn’t help but get invested in how the team was doing. The Tacos had simply never played like this before. The team was good! And then the team was bad. They lost terribly to teams they should have swept. Then they won handily in matches that they should have tanked. Sexton gave up homer after homer, but then the team would hit them right back. 

The losses were all _so close_. But then again, so were the wins. 

By the time only a third of the season had passed, Dove’s nails were bitten down to the quick. He didn’t used to care like this. _Thank the gods_ he didn’t used to care like this. His stomach couldn’t take it.

And yet he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. He felt like he owed them that much. 

The team had just come off a string of bad losses when they stepped up to the plate against the Lovers. Even if Dove _had_ been following his own rule and not watching games, he would have broken it for this one. This was one of the few times this season the Tacos would face off against the team NaN had landed on. Even though NaN leaving the team had been amicable and they hadn't been stolen like others had, Dove still worried about them out there on their own. He had to make sure that the kid was doing alright without the Tacos to look after them anymore. 

The game began and the Lovers did their best to remind the Tacos what a good team actually looked like. But the Tacos put up a solid fight- they actually made the Lovers work to earn their runs instead of just letting them run away with it like they had in previous seasons. 

Dove watched in anticipation for NaN’s at bats, and to his relief it seemed like the kid was holding his own. As they stepped up to the plate, it became clear that NaN had learned a few things on their travels. They walked with a little more confidence. They stood a little taller. Dove held his breath as they took their stance, swung at a good pitch and, to his simultaneous agony and delight, sent the ball flying out of the park. 

_Huh. Looks like they don’t need us as much as we thought._ Dove let that thought settle in as he leaned further back into the shadows.

After the game (another surprising Tacos win), Dove watched as the two teams came out to mingle on the field. NaN looked happy as they chatted with their old friends. Vito punched them in the arm playfully but his fist passed right through it (as things sometimes did). Hex barked a laugh. Basilio gestured jealously at NaN’s new uniform and souvenirs. 

Dove realized with a spark of pride that the kid had a good shot at seeing the playoffs. And, strangely enough, so did the Tacos.

Dove didn’t regret not playing this season. He’d been content to get some distance, happy to step aside for a while. But, seeing at least some of his friends together again like this-- he couldn’t deny that he wished he was out there with them.

All those friends- the Tacos who had been scattered across the League, the Wyatts and Masons who had traded teams- they were still out there. And as the season went on, their old friends reminded the Tacos that though they were small, they were not alone.

In a mid season game, former Taco Wyatt Owens was pitching for the Dale. At the top of the 9th, the Dale were up. But when Owens got back on the mound in the bottom of the inning, he threw a series of softballs. The Tacos brought in five runs for a glorious Shame. As the Tacos celebrated, when he thought no one was looking, Owens smiled. But Dove saw.

In a late season game against the Flowers, former Taco Moses Mason was up to bat. The Flowers had a runner on base and the Tacos’ lead was slim. Dove watched as Moses swung at balls they definitely shouldn’t have. He caught them sending a knowing glance toward Wheerer as he sealed the strikeout that clinched a Tacos win.

Their friends were still there with them, even if they wore different colors. And so what if Dove was looking too deep into mere coincidence- there certainly must have been some kind of League rule about throwing matches that prevented this kind of foul play- but still. He knew those players. He’d played alongside them. He still shared parts of their names. And he’d shared more than a few post-game tacos with them too. 

In the immediate aftermath of Day X, when Dove had been so convinced that this fight wasn’t worth fighting anymore, he’d been so focused on the friends that had gotten stolen from them that he’d forgotten the friends still among them. But after what they’d been through together, how could the former Tacos not try to help their friends?

With their help, maybe the fight wasn’t so impossible. 

Dove kept watching, in growing anticipation, as the 8 remaining Tacos got closer and closer to clinching a playoff spot. Each game was a fight. Each win was a huge relief. Each loss a crushing blow. 

Day 86, Sexton pitched a shutout against the Spies to tie the Tacos’ previous highest win count of 45. The record stood from all the way back in Season 2, from when they’d still been the Los Angeles Tacos, before everything started unraveling. Dove laughed to himself at how strangely normal that season felt in retrospect. He couldn’t believe how long ago it seemed. Back before they’d lost anyone- not even Natha. Back when he had a different name. 

He missed those simpler times. But he also desperately wanted them to break the old record. He wanted them to show the League that they weren’t that team anymore. To prove to themselves and to everyone that they were something more. 

Game 87 was a rematch against the Spies. Dove could feel his heart pounding the moment it began. Innings passed and neither team gave up any runs. The tension grew as the game remained scoreless, and he dreaded the thought of going to extras. They just had to get on the board, just one run on the board, and this could be the game they beat their record. 

Finally in the bottom of the eighth Mcdowell stepped up to the plate and slammed one out of the park. Valentine, as if not to be shown up, smashed a dinger as well. Dove's elation quickly gave way to worry. Now they just needed three outs. Three outs and the record was theirs.

Sexton returned to the mound. Three batters stepped up. And, in quick and clean succession, three batters went down without a runner making it to first. He didn’t crack. Sexton pulled off a double shutout. The Tacos officially had their winningest season yet. 

But they weren’t done yet. Now, the final push to the playoffs truly began.

Dove had been dreading this part all season. Days 91 to 96. Two back to back series against the Crabs, the most dominant team in Blaseball history. The Tacos were barely clinging to their .500 win rate. Their chances seemed slim. Dove tried to remind himself that they’d already broken their record. That was already a huge win for them, more than he could have expected, and a great place to end the season at regardless.

But. _What if?_ What if the _Tacos_ could actually make the playoffs?

Even if their next opponent was nigh impossible for them to beat, Dove could still have hope.

The first series went about as expected. They pulled off one upset victory but definitively lost the other two matches. After the games the team looked despondent. They were running out of days left to get the wins they needed to secure their spot. 

In the pause before the start of the second series, Dove was quite surprised when he saw Nagomi Mcdaniel approaching the team. Even if the Tacos had improved, it seemed silly that the best hitter in the league would have anything to say to them. But perhaps she felt guilty. After all, she had only very narrowly escaped sharing the same terrible fate as their stolen friends. She’d been pecked free at nearly the last possible moment while the Tacos remained trapped. She at least shared some of their understanding, if not all of their pain.

Dove leaned in to overhear what she said.

“You all are very close,” Nagomi addressed the Tacos at their sideline. “How does it feel?”

“Terrifying, to be honest,” Basilio Mason replied. 

Rat fidgeted with the hem of his jersey. “The Flowers could overtake us at any moment. It could all end. Just like that.” 

Nagomi smiled a wizened smile. “It’s hard being at the top huh? Means you always gotta watch your back.”

Everyone on the team seemed half star-struck, half discouraged. Everyone but Val. She just smirked defiantly. “We’re watching our backs alright. So you had better watch yours.”

Nagomi chuckled. She turned to head back to her team. “I’ve been rooting for you, Tacos. But don’t think that means I’m going to take it easy on you.”

Then the second series began. Dove tried and failed to calm his rattling nerves. And then he watched as the Tacos did what they do best. 

They stood up to their fears. They faced a seemingly insurmountable opponent with reckless defiance and unshakeable heart. 

And they won. 

The Tacos swept the Crabs. 

Dove couldn’t believe it as they brought in the final winning run, and from the looks on their faces, neither could the team. They’d built momentum, they’d got on base, they’d hit dingers to bring folks home like it was easy. They’d played more cohesively than they had all season. Their little team was a _team._

That last last win put them at 51 wins total. They’d locked in their first-ever winning record.

Dove finally let himself really believe it. They were going to the playoffs. And they had a shot, albeit a long one, at making it to the finals, at standing up to the nut and demanding their friends back personally. Dove knew better than to get attached to the idea. But he couldn’t get rid of it either. 

As if to keep him humble, the Tacos lost their last three games. But still. It turned out they had already done enough. The Flowers lost. And the Tacos were in.

Dove watched from the shadows as the realization dawned on the team. As they lingered on the field after their game, smiles spread across their faces. They’d done it. They weren’t storming into the postseason with a bang, and it was hard to be happy right after a loss, but that didn’t stop them from celebrating. Dove’s nervous energy melted as Mcdowell pulled Basilio in for a hug, as Rat globbed on beside him, as they shoved Sexton into the middle of the bunch, as even Vito and Fig and Hex and Val got roped in too. 

The smallest team in the League. The infinite 8. Four original Tacos, and four who’d been welcomed in. They’d done what nobody thought they could do.

It was then that Dove finally let the thought come crashing in, the one he’d been pushing away since he’d walked away from playing. _I should be out there with them._ Instead, he sat silently in the shadows, as he had all season, as the team made their way off the field. 

Dove reminded himself that if he’d been out there he might have only just held them back. If he’d been out there they might not have beat their record, might not have made the playoffs. He told himself again that it was better this way. Sitting out was the best thing he could have done to help them. 

Selfishly, he didn’t care. He still wanted to be out there. He would rather the team be bad and together than separate and good. But he couldn’t blame them if they didn’t feel the same.

One by one the team left the field to head back to the lockers, with Mcdowell bringing up the rear. Right before Mcdowell stepped down, he looked over and met Dove’s eyes. Dove blinked. He’d gotten so used to being the one doing the watching that he forgot what it was like to be seen. Mcdowell smiled a soft smile, and he lifted a finger to point up at his hat, at the logo they _both_ played under and belonged to. A small reminder. _This is still your team too._

Dove smiled back, renewed determination swelling within him, and he gave Mcdowell a small nod. _It’s up to you guys now. Show them what this means to us._

Mcdowell nodded back and then stepped away, disappearing into the locker room. Dove let out a breath. The persistent knot in his stomach was back. And now all he could do was wait.


	5. Chapter 5

After the last game of their season, The Tacos gathered in their taco truck behind the stadium, as they always did. The floodlights were dark. The stands were silent. The field was empty. 

Their historic run was over. 

Mcdowell sat with his legs dangling out the open back door, staring up through the infinite cities at the kaleidoscope of stars beyond. Fig stood by, solemnly as ever, its fronds rustling gently in the breeze. Vito languished listlessly on the nasty old couch that they had somehow managed to cram inside the back of the truck. 

Halfheartedly, Basilio Mason lit up the grill. Usually Dove and Quitter did the cooking, but- well, he wasn’t going to let their tradition stop tonight. Especially not tonight.

He reached for the meat and the seasonings, pulled out the tortillas and started throwing them on the grill. He was pretty sure this was how he was supposed to do it. He’d watched his friends do it a hundred times. It couldn’t be that hard to figure out. Still, doubt twisted in his stomach. The team had a whole season of figuring out how to go on without their friends, and still it didn’t feel like they were any better at it. The loss found new ways to sneak up on them again and again.

Something started to smell a little burnt. He grabbed a spatula and shoved the fillings around the flat top haphazardly. What a mess.

Sexton looked up from where he sat against the wall. “Look guys,” he began, “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t say that,” Val cut in before he could get any further, “No one is blaming this on you.” Hex whined in agreement. She hopped off the couch and sat down next to Wheerer, leaning her head on him in a gesture of comfort.

“I just- I really wanted to win.” Sexton let out a long sigh. “But when we got out there- when I realized they were watching-”

Basilio froze, his spatula hovering mid-chop. As the playoff schedule had been set, they’d all seen it. The PODS had come back and they were waiting. Watching. They were back to witness the postseason games. They were here to make good on the promise of a rematch. 

At that moment when they appeared, right before the Tacos took the field for their first ever playoff showing, Basilio’s mouth had gone dry. He’d never wanted anything more than he wanted revenge on that wretched nut. Nobody had expected _the Tacos_ to be the ones to make it far enough to fight that fight, but who was more deserving than them? No other team had lost half as much. The nut had declared war and this season the Tacos had proven, against all odds, that they actually were strong enough to fight back.

But, on the precipice of the playoffs, seeing his subjugated friends again did not fill Basilio with inspiration. Instead, it filled him with fear. Even though his former teammates were closer than they had been all season, seeing them again just made him realize how out of reach they truly were. 

Those players weren’t their teammates anymore. Those players were beyond their reach, each a terrible simulacrum of who their friends once were. Sure they had the same names and the same skills, but beyond that they were unrecognizable. It made his heart ache. 

When they’d been gone he’d been able to picture them as they used to be, full of joy and hope and heart. Now that they were back he had to face the truth of what they’d become. He had to face how utterly _impossible_ it felt to bring them home.

“Man, your tortillas.” Rat pointed to the now nearly-black tortillas on the grill. Basilio hadn’t noticed him come over. He quickly swept the burnt dough off the grill before it caught fire.

“Thanks,” Basilio mumbled. “I’m not very good at this.”

Rat smirked. “We’re not very good at a lot of things. It’s the Taco way.”

Basilio just looked at Rat in perplexed silence. Then, a laugh choked it’s way out of him. It was a broken, terrible laugh. But that didn’t stop it from spreading quickly throughout the team. First Rat snorted in reply, then Vito barked a pained guffaw, then Mcdowell’s bellowing chuckle started shaking the whole truck. All of them began laughing like lunatics. 

Of course, none of them were happy. Basilio wasn’t the only one brushing the tears from the corners of his eyes through his giggling. But it felt right to be laughing at their losses together, like they used to. Like they always did. 

“You want to hear something actually funny?” Rat asked between chuckles. _“Tacos made the playoffs.”_

That sent the laughter spiraling again. Basilio had to admit it was just absurd. They’d really done it. The Tacos ended the season with a winning record, the best they’d ever had. They’d made the playoffs, albeit for a very brief amount of time. They were the infinite 8, who had done so much more than anyone could have predicted. They could still be proud of that accomplishment. They’d earned that much at least. 

The laughter faded slowly, leaving behind only the sound of sizzling from the grill. With a surprisingly steady hand, Basilio scooped the meat onto the remaining non-burnt tortillas. Beside him Rat pulled out the salsas and toppings. Together they handed out the finished tacos to their teammates. The final product looked a little shabby in the end, but that didn't mean they weren't good.

As they gathered around to eat, soft chatter began to pick up around the truck. Basilio overheard snippets of conversations as he made his way to the back. Vito was eager to show up fashionably late to the post-season party for once. Sexton was looking forward to a much needed siesta. Rat was eager to get back out there, said he wanted to try some new batting techniques next season.

_Oh right. Next season._ Basilio had been so focused on the games right ahead of them that he hadn’t even considered what next season might be. Part of him hadn’t wanted to- it hurt too much to start to imagine another season without their stolen friends. But he couldn’t deny that in their absence the teammates that were left behind had bonded together. They’d held on to the heart that they thought they’d lost. They’d shown everyone that they were still the Tacos.

Even if next season came and their newfound status as winners didn’t hold, even if they went back to being the worst team in the League, Basilio didn’t mind. As long as he got to play ball with his friends, for as little or as much time he had left with them, it would be okay. 

Taco in hand, he sat down next to Mcdowell and drank in the quiet of the dark night beyond.

“They would be proud of us,” Mcdowell said softly, his eyes still on the stars. 

Bailio smiled. “When they’re back, they will be.”


	6. Chapter 6

After the end, they waited. 

They’d done it. They’d killed God. So where were their friends?

The Tacos stood together on the field as they waited for the election results- holding hands, like they always did. They refused to give up the hope they’d clung to all season. 

Then, finally. Something bright, falling from above. They held their breaths. 

It landed on the field, too fast to make sense of. They ran over, hearts racing. Out of the crater rose a player in a Tacos uniform.

Peanut Bong. 

He stood up, shakily. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. 

Bong looked at them, sheepish. “Uh hi. I guess I pitch for you guys now?”

Then suddenly, wordlessly, Basilio Mason turned on his heel and stormed away.

Hex and Rat and Vito shared a worried look. They turned and followed him, jogging to catch up.

“You okay man?” Rat asked.

“Why aren’t they back?” Basilio strained to keep the volume of his voice in check. “We worked so hard. We struggled and we fought. All because we thought we’d get them back.”

Rat struggled to keep up. “Look, at least we know that since Bong is okay that means they’re okay too.”

“They should _be here_. They should be here with us. Not him.”

“Yeesh. Harsh.” Vito chimed in. 

Basilio stopped walking and shot him a scathing look. “I don’t care. This is worse than getting none of them back at all. You can’t deny that.”

None of them met Basilio’s eyes, but also none of them replied. Hex whined softly.

Basilio threw his hands up, point proven. “Man I just-- I’m gonna take a walk. Clear my head.”

He turned to leave. And then his phone buzzed. He heard dings from the others around the field too. 

He pulled out his phone. A new message notification in the Tacos groupchat. His heart leapt to his throat as he opened it.

    Fran: Hello friends! I wanted to let you know that I’m okay. I’m back with the Dale. Owens says hello :)

Basilio gripped his phone so hard it felt like he’d crush it. _They were back._ Just not back with them. Then, quickly, more messages began flooding in.

    Pothos: I’m fine too. On the Jazz Hands. Do any of you have a spare bass I can use

    Quitter: Guys I’m in Tokyo. I didn’t even know they had Blaseball here lol

    Leaf: Greetings. I seem to be in New York. All is well.

    PM: [picture message]. 

Basilio opened it. He recognized the Seattle Garages with an array of delighted and confused looks on their faces. Part of Pitching Machine’s hopper was visible sticking out of the bottom of the frame. He suddenly recalled Rat supergluing a cell phone to PM as a joke. 

    Patel: GUYS. You’re never gonna believe it. I ended up on the STEAKS. The cookouts are gonna be legendaryyyy

    Mcdowell: So glad that you are all okay. We were so worried. 

    Vito: Yeah you guys had us scared sh#$^%less. Very not cool

    Vito: Hey why are my swears censored

    Sexton: It’s really good to have you back

    Sexton: Even if, you know, you’re not /back/ back

Basilio’s fingers hovered over his keyboard. The chat paused for a moment. He typed a short message and hit send.

    Basilio: We really missed you guys

The chat stayed silent for a long moment. Then:

    Pothos: It’s been like two seasons you’re really that desperate for us huh?

    Quitter: Of course they missed us we’re delightful ;)

    Patel: Hey that reminds me did anyone remember to get my leftover lasagna out of the locker room fridge I feel so bad for leaving it there this whole time

    Fran: I missed you guys too! But it looks like you guys did just fine without us. Congrats on making the playoffs!!

    Patel: WHOA

    Patel: WHAT

    Pothos: No way. You guys made the playoffs??

    Hex: ^(ᵔᴥᵔ)^

    Quitter: You have to be joking right. The Tacos don’t go to the playoffs

    Leaf: I knew you could do it.

    Quitter: Whoa. Checked the records. You really did it

    Rat: Believe it! We were,, pretty pissed when you guys got stolen ahah

    Rat: Turns out revenge is a great motivator ^^

    Patel: THIS IS CRAZY

    Val: Am I the only one who finds it insulting how shocked they are

    Pothos: Way to absolutely tank it in the first round against the Beams lmao

    Sexton: We gave it our best shot

    Patel: NO YOU DID GREAT BUDDY!! 

    Patel: I THINK I KINDA REMEMBER WATCHIGN A BIT OF THAT MATCH

    Patel: I WAS ROOTING FOR YOU!!

    Fran: I was rooting for you guys too!

    Quitter: Yeah same

    Basilio: Wish you guys could play with us again this season so we could show how good we really got

    Vito: Yeah the Nut’s aim really sucked when it yeeted you back. Where tf even is Breckenridge we want a re-do

    Sexton: Having Pitching Machine’s help again would have been nice. Especially after it drank all that blood

    PM: [picture message]

Another shot of the Seattle Garages. This time they were caught in a blur of motion, faces in states of shock and horror. Multiple blaseballs whizzed across the frame. Some were mid-collision with players. Basilio snorted.

    Hex: /(⚆ᴥ⚆)/

    Mcdowell: It hasn’t been easy without you guys

    Fran: I can’t say I’m not disappointed that we aren’t there with you right now

    Fran: But we will play with you again

    Fran: Well, technically we’ll be playing /against/ you

    Fran: But we’ll all still be there together on the field

    She was right. Basilio was excited to see them all again during games. But it didn’t make him hate this whole thing any less though.

    Quitter: Yeah you better watch out cause we’re gonna use our spooky peanut powers on ya

    Leaf: I do not believe we have Peanut Powers.

    Quitter: Allie shhhhh

    Patel: Hey the Steaks are asking for my Taco recipes is it cool if I share the ones we make in the truck after games?

    Mcdowell: That should be alright.

    Patel: Cool thanks gotta go talk soon love you all!!!

    Pothos: I should probably head out too. Jazz Hands say I have a lot of music lessons to catch up on before the season starts

    Pothos: Whatever that means

    Vito: Good luck to them. You can’t hold a tune to save your life

    Pothos: Don’t make me come back there and smack those stupid sunglasses of your face

    Vito: Try it!!!!

    Quitter: I’m gonna go explore Tokyo some. I have to go find all the good spots so I can show you guys around when you have a game here!

    Leaf: I recall you saying you hated sushi?

    Quitter: Yeah but anything is better than peanuts amirite??

    Quitter: Anyway, later

    Leaf: I too must depart. This city is most perplexing. I think I will start with a walk to the park.

    Rat: Go visit the Conservatory Garden it was one of my favorite spots when I lived there and I think you'd really like it!!

    Leaf: I certainly will. Thank you.

    Basilio: What about you Fran?

    Fran: I should go too. The Dale are really excited to have me back. We’re taking the party yacht out to celebrate haha

    Vito: Dale has a PARTY YACHT?!?!

    Vito: What the h#$% why don’t we have a party yacht

    Basilio: Sounds like a lot of fun

    Fran: It will be! :) I’ll make sure you guys all get an invite next time you’re in Miami

    Rat: You better!!

    Basilio: You all seem like you’re settling in on your new teams well

    Fran: I’m lucky because I’m back on my old team. But those of us who’ve switched before know it’s easier than you think to warm up to a new home. 

    Fran: We’ll always be Tacos. But it’s exciting to get to be something different too 

    Fran: And it really is great to see how amazing you guys did without us. I’ll still be rooting for you when the season starts!

    Mcdowell: We’re rooting for you too.

    Fran: We’ll see you soon :)

Basilio lowered his phone. His rage had faded, and smiles lingered on the faces of his teammates around him. If only he could ride that momentary high forever, of them all chatting and goofing off together. For a second it had felt just like the old days, and it gave him confidence that they’d still be there for each other even if they lived far apart.

But still. This sucked. He scanned across the team he was reminded again that all their friends weren’t there with them. Sure, they could at least still text each other now. But they weren’t all together like they used to be. And now he had to accept that they weren’t going to be together again. 

His phone buzzed again.

    NaN: Aww shoot I missed the welcome back party. I’m so happy you all are okay!!

    NaN: We got new uniforms over on the Lovers and I want to show you guys. Can’t wait to see you this season!!

A picture message came through. It was of NaN, posing somewhat ridiculously in their new uniform as his fellow Lovers teammates photobombed to various degrees behind them.

    Mcdowell: Looking good.

    Quitter: Yo did you get taller while we were gone??

More messages followed in a wave of buzzes and bings that ebbed and flowed across the field. Basilio smiled as he read them, but then he looked away long enough to climb up the stands and find a place to sit alone for a bit. 

He let out a sigh as he leaned back in the hard plastic seat. A strange new sun hung low in the sky over the stadium. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the warmth of it soak into his skin.

He chuckled to himself. Weird how _Sun 2_ showing up felt monumentally less catastrophic than his friends moving to different cities. Funny how perspective could change things like that.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the field. Sexton had given Bong a glove and put him on the mound. Vito crouched behind home, ready to catch. Bong took his stance. Wound up. And then threw a ball so wide that Vito didn’t even bother to reach for it. Bong shrugged. Sexton laughed and shook his head. And then they reset to try again. 

Same old Tacos. All of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this will be the last installment of this lil Tacos fic, which I have enjoyed writing so very much. I still miss our stolen players dearly but Blaseball is about change beyond our control and finding ways to be together even when we're apart and the way this season shook out was a good reminder of that.


End file.
